


5 essays michelle jones writes about her breakup (and 1 she writes about reuniting with her ex)

by caramelcaramelcaramel



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: 5 Things, 5 Times, 5+1 Things, Adult Content, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Break Up, College Student Michael Jones, College Student Peter Parker, Established Relationship, Ex Sex, F/M, First Love, Long-Distance Relationship, Michelle Jones Needs a Hug, Michelle Jones-centric, POV Michelle Jones, Post-Break Up, Slow Burn, Spideychelle, True Love, Young Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:01:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24266293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelcaramelcaramel/pseuds/caramelcaramelcaramel
Summary: Over the course of several months, MJ writes five essays about her breakup with Peter.Years later, she writes one last essay. This time, about reuniting with him.folllow me on twitter for updates on new chapters or on tumblr for general writing stuff including writing lil pieces and taking requests!
Relationships: Michelle Jones/Peter Parker
Comments: 11
Kudos: 80





	1. Growth

**Author's Note:**

> this was inspired by an essay i read by Ella Dawson about breakup sex! it's a really beautiful piece and if you have the time (which, let's be honest, we all have an abundance of time rn) it's a really good read! https://longreads.com/2020/05/18/the-lie-of-one-last-time-with-my-ex/
> 
> anyways, enjoy!

Peter was perfect.

Let’s make that clear.

This isn’t an essay about an imperfect relationship. About an imperfect boy.

It’s about growth.

Peter and I met in high school. At first, he was hopelessly head over heals for the captain of our decathlon team. She was tall and pretty and popular, and he was incredibly obvious. He mucked it up somehow, she moved away, and that was that.

Then I took over as decathlon captain.

Now that I’m thinking about it, maybe Peter’s type is tall girls who lead decathlon teams.

I’d been…observing him. At first, it was because he was unusual. Slipping off between classes, flaking on competitions and then deciding to come anyways only to flake again.

And then it became more than noting an unusual boy. It became infatuation with boy with hair I desperately wanted to play with, with chocolate brown eyes that seemed to hold all the kindness and softness in the world, with every mannerism and stutter and quirk.

Luckily, I could hide my crush with my own unusualness. I was a loner, famously. I hung out in detention halls to “draw people in crisis”. I sat on the bleachers with my nose in a book. Nobody knew how to read me, because I was so different, and I liked it that way.

So I spent sophomore year silently admiring Peter while he fawned over Liz. And the first half of junior year. And then The Blip happened, and we had to repeat junior year, so I pined some more.

We went to Europe as a decathlon team. The reason why escapes me. I think our teacher just needed an excuse to escape his life at home, where his wife had faked her own death in the Snap to leave him and start anew.

Things got weirder. I knew, by this point, that Peter was Spider-Man. I wasn’t stupid. I just didn’t think it would follow him to Europe. Of course, it did. And he took down Quentin Beck in London. I ran to see if he was okay, and he met me on a bridge, amongst crashed cars and broken drones.

And we kissed. Three times.

We fell asleep together on the plane home. We started to grow closer and closer. His aunt took me in as she realized my own family was too absent for my well-being. I spent more time in his home than mine. Our lives became wonderfully and beautifully intertwined.

It was magical. We were so different but in similar ways. We seemed to compliment each other perfectly.

And Peter was everything I could’ve wished for out of a teenage boy. Aware of his own privilege, for one. Willing to listen to my rants about abortion rights, or black kids being murdered by police, or the wage gap (which very much exists, thank you very much). Understanding. When I told him about my history with relationships, both romantic and otherwise, he was ready to take things as slow as I needed. He let me set the pace, eagerly pulling me closer whenever I allowed it.

I told him I loved him that summer. We were at a public pool with some friends, and my social battery started to run out, so I removed myself from the rowdy games in the water to sit at the edge of the pool. Peter, thinking I was upset about something, swam over to me, stopping in front of me.

“Hey, is something wrong?”

I’d shaken my head. “No, I’m okay. I just needed a moment to myself.”

When he looked unsure, I added a smile.

“Thank you for checking on me.”

I can still picture this moment with perfect clarity. He was looking up at me, hair wet and dripping chlorinated water down his face, hands on the ledge beside my legs. And smiling, softly, sweetly.

“Of course, I just want you to be happy.”

I’d known how I felt about him for a while, but I’d been too scared to say it. I didn’t wanna say it first and face the rejection of an oh-I’m-sorry-but-I-don’t-feel-the-same conversation.

But my stomach was occupied by baking soda butterflies, and the words “I just want you to be happy” were vinegar poured down my throat.

It bubbled out of me before I could stop it.

“I love you, Peter.”

There were three seconds of silence. Well, relative silence, because we were at a public pool and our friends were playing a game I didn’t quite get. And yes, I counted the seconds.

“I love you, too, Em.”

I slid back into the water and wrapped my arms around him. “Really?” I don’t know why I gave him the opportunity to take it back.

“Really.”

And he kissed me.

The first time we did anything sexual was about a month after that. We’d been left alone in his apartment more times than I could count, but he’d never pushed it there, and I’d been too scared to take it there. But I was feeling gutsy, I suppose, and I couldn’t think of a reason why I shouldn’t at least try.

He was the perfect gentlemen. He was kind as I gave him what was probably a _very_ lacklustre blowjob. He listened closely as I told him how to touch me. We curled up together afterwards, under a pile of blankets, whispering sweet nothings as we drifted off.

We had sex a couple weeks later. I’d make a dirty joke, and it somehow went down that road on its own. I remembered thinking that nobody had ever touched me with so much care, had cared so deeply about my enjoyment and pleasure, and I fell deeper and deeper in love with him. I wondered, genuinely, if anybody else had the capacity to care like Peter did.

I still do, to be honest.

We dated through high school, and made it until we went off to school. I went to NYU. He went to MIT. And neither of us saw the point in breaking up. We had cars. We had weekends. Why would we break up?

But, as long distance does, it got hard. The weekends we thought we had became full of homework, and we couldn’t afford to sacrifice the time it would take to get to each other.

I missed him in a way I had never missed anyone before. I found my grades slipping because I was daydreaming about him in class.

After about a month of that, I decided it was a better investment of my time to travel to Peter than to spend the weekend working.

So I did. I made the drive down to him, and stayed in his tiny dorm with him for a weekend. And it felt like healing. Being back in the arms I’d missed so much felt like coming home, when I had distanced myself from the concept of home my whole life. I sank into it. By the end of the weekend, I found myself looking at ways around the distance. Doing university online. Applying to school’s closer. Taking a year off. Anything to be closer to him.

I needed him, didn’t I?

And then I reality checked myself. I wondered why I was allowing myself to choose a boy over my education. Over going to school where I wanted to. Choosing a boy over my education was the opposite of everything I stood for.

As I was going through this crisis, an article I’d been trying to sell took off. It went viral. Suddenly, my minimum wage barista job at the on-campus Starbucks was beneath me. Before I knew it, I had my own desk at a newspaper, not to mention my own column. I spent twenty hours a week debating old white men who made love to the concept of the American Dream by calling me a liberal snowflake. My friends were insanely proud of me. Peter’s aunt even organized a surprise party, with everyone I loved.

Except Peter, who had to FaceTime in.

And then I realized.

He was going to MIT, studying computer science and cognition, trying to fill the shoes of the late Tony Stark. I was going to NYU, trying to become a journalist who could be taken seriously despite my dark skin and love for Bernie Sanders.

The ways we were different no longer perfectly complemented each other.

He drove up the following weekend, and we spent two lovely nights together, before he admitted he knew something was wrong, and asked me what it was.

I told him I wanted to break up.

I gave this big, long speech, about dreams and paths and fate and love and loss and all the things I wanted and all the things he wanted and all the ways they didn’t fit together. And do you know what he said?

“I just want you to be happy.”

He kissed me, gently, and started to leave. I grabbed him and kissed him again.

He spent one more night with me. He was a perfect gentlemen. We drifted off, curled up in each other’s arms, whispering sweet nothings.

But sweet nothings had become bittersweet.

When I woke up in the morning, he was gone, nothing left of him in my little studio apartment but a yellow sticky note on my fridge.

“I’ll always want you to be happy.

“Love, Peter.”

He and I made the right choice, breaking up. It’s hard, letting go of someone perfect.

But here’s the thing. I will never settle for anything less. I have learned the kind of touch I need. I have learned the kind of conversations I want to have. I have learned so much about myself, all from learning about him.

So thank you, Peter. A perfect boy who slowly became imperfect for me.

I hope you find someone who stays perfect.


	2. Trying to Date Again

If you read last week’s column, you’ll be aware that I’m going through a bit of a breakup.

And by a bit, I mean I was with someone I thought I was going to marry and we broke up after three years.

Perhaps that’s a bit naïve. But it’s something I’m struggling with right now.

Anyways. Onto this week’s essay.

Dating.

Specifically, the pain of dating after a breakup.

I’ve lovingly dubbed it “rebound hunting”. Because I’m being honest with myself and admitting that all I want is a rebound to latch onto to ease the pain of losing the person I loved so much.

In the last week, I’ve been on two blind dates. Two vastly different blind dates. Here’s what I’ve learned.

The first date was someone my lovely friend, Betty, set me up with. In true blind date fashion, we were only given each other’s first names, a restaurant and time to meet at, and a reservation under Betty’s name.

I was excited. I hadn’t been on a first date in three years. I glammed up, as much as I ever glam up, which is to say I sort of did my hair, slapped on mascara and lip gloss, and wore something that I thought screamed _I AM A STRONG, INDEPENDENT WOMAN_ , but more likely screamed _, I AM IN A LOT OF PAIN._ Who knows? Not me.

I arrived first, because I have a lot of anxiety and being early gives me a false sense of control. I sat at the table, and ordered a glass of wine, and almost hoped I’d get stood up. Not that I don’t love Betty’s taste in men, her boyfriend Ned is a wonderful guy, but I was very aware of the fact that I didn’t know I could go multiple hours without ugly crying over Peter.

How would that go?

_Hi, I’m Michelle, most of my friends call me MJ, and I’m desperate for the love and affection that I just ripped from my own life because my relationship had run it’s course and now I’m dating to fill a void! Are you thinking steak or salad for dinner?_

Actually, that’s objectively better than how the date actually went.

When he arrived, I immediately noticed a resemblance between him and my ex. Big brown eyes. Curly hair that flops a little over the forehead.

And I burst into tears on the spot.

Let’s be clear. Crying in front of people in general is incredibly out of character for me. It took me six months to cry in front of my ex. My best friends have never seen me cry. I’m not a crier, especially when other people are around. It’s humiliating and gross and I hate the attention.

I cried on and off through dinner, and drank a lot of wine. And I felt awful. Because he was a nice guy! And he deserved a good evening out. And I ruined dinner by blubbering over my ex-boyfriend.

He was a good sport. He pretended I wasn’t crying and continued the conversation. I think a lot of girls would’ve perceived that as a lack of care or empathy, but it was a blessing to me.

He was sweet, and we got along, but it was clear we had nothing in common. I’m a humanities student, and he’s a business major, about to inherit his dad’s company. We were clearly incompatible, but it was still a nice evening.

I insisted on paying for dinner, because I felt so awful, and he only agreed because I jokingly threatened to cry on him. He walked me back to my building, and gave me a chaste kiss on the cheek.

Haven’t spoken to him since.

I called Betty when I got up to my apartment and apologized through tears for screwing up the date she’d set up for me so bad, and launched into a big speech about how I should’ve known I wasn’t ready and should’ve said no and should’ve stayed home and eaten Ben and Jerry’s and watched To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before.

She interrupted me to say that she told the guy what I was going through, sent him specifically because she knew he’d be kind but that I wouldn’t see a future and therefore wouldn’t be scaring of a genuine potential partner, and that it’s okay.

Something about someone telling me that it’s okay to be bad at dating just hit me in a weird way.

Because that’s not something women are often told. We have to be good at dating so we can find a husband to dote on forever while we’re still young enough to be fertile and youthful and loveable.

But yeah. I very recently lost a relationship that meant a lot to me. Right now isn’t about finding a long term partner. It’s about trying to heal, and trying to learn how I need to heal. Because I’ve never been through this before, and it’s all new to me, and I don’t know what The Right Breakup Process is for me. I’m allowed to be bad at it.

This is a realization I’ve had recently. Life is literally the longest thing we’ll ever experience. We have roughly eighty years. Why do we have to be married by 30? Why do we have to be successful by 25? What’s the rush? What do we do with the rest of our lives, then? Lather, rinse, repeat a 40 hour per week schedule with taco nights and pasta nights and date night where we have to hire a babysitter, and if we’re privileged enough, we can vacation more than two weeks a year?

I don’t WANT to have it all figured out right away. I want to be bad at things and struggle to figure them out. I want to spend years in school, in a shitty apartment in Queens, trying to find the best career path for myself. I want to make relationships that mean something and lose them and learn how to lose them with grace. I want grief in all it’s ugliest forms, like crying the second your date walks in, and I want recovery. Figuring things out right away seems boring. What do you do between the years of 30 and death if you have things figured out “on time”? Where’s the fun in fifty years of coasting?

So that’s what the first blind date taught me.

My friend Cindy set me up on my second blind date. She gave me his number, gave him mine, and we started talking. Right off the bat, I told him I’d rather meet in person for coffee than text all night, so we did. He agreed to meet me at a café on campus for lunch.

I did not get nearly as dolled up for this date. This man got paint-covered jeans, a tank top I’ve owned since middle school, and lip gloss I slapped on in the three seconds between when I sat down at the table and when he walked into the café.

He looked nothing like my ex. Which was refreshing.

And I didn’t burst into tears, which was relieving.

We got about halfway through lunch before he brought up politics. Apparently, he’s read my column. He started off by calling me a libtard (gentlemen, if you’re trying to get laid, calling your date a libtard for wanting human rights is not a good start) and progressed to telling me I was a murderer for condoning abortion.

I texted a friend under the table, she called me with an “emergency”, and I ran out of there as fast as I could.

When I called Cindy about it later, she laughed, and asked if I’d cried. When I said, no, I hadn’t cried, but I’d almost kicked the man in the balls so he’d know the pain of a coat hanger abortion, she said, “Don’t you feel better?”

And yeah, I did feel better. I was angry and annoyed and I wanted nothing more than to skip my next class to head to the gym and do some kickboxing. But anger feels better than sadness sometimes, and I’d been lacking something to be mad at.

The rebound hunt continues, but I feel slightly better knowing I’m going to be bad at it. I am going to cry, I am going to make stupid mistakes, I am going to get unreasonably angry.

And that’s okay.

I’ll feel better eventually.


	3. The problems with breakup sex

I’ve decided that breakup sex is bad.

Now, I didn’t have a strong opinion on it until now, because I’d never had breakup sex. However, my ex was in the city for the weekend,

When I first found out, I had no intention of seeing him. Because I know I’m not over him, and I knew it’d be super painful and nothing would be gained. We wouldn’t get back together. We wouldn’t find closure. It would just be a painful reminder of the boy I lost just over a month ago.

As you can probably guess, I ended up seeing him. I ran into him at a café we used to frequent, and he tentatively asked if he could join me for coffee.

I should’ve said no, I’m working, both on assignments and on getting over you.

But I missed him. And he was right there. So I said yes.

He sat down across from me, and it was awkward at first. He’d read my essay about the breakup, and the one about dating, and asked how I was doing.

“I’m doing okay, all things considered.”

“You haven’t burst into tears yet,” he teased.

And somehow the teasing loosened us up, and suddenly it felt like high school again. Sitting across from each other at the very same table, quizzing each other before exams, rewarding correct answers with high fives, and kissing stray whipped cream off of the corner of each other’s mouths.

We were joking around, teasing each other, smiling as we relaxed. We were all but playing footsie under the table.

We stayed at the café for hours, until I’d finally finished my assignment. I found myself hesitating to admit I was done, because I knew when we stepped apart, the illusion of being with the boy I loved was over.

“Where are you going?” he asked. “I’ll walk you. It’s getting dark.”

How Spider-Man of him.

He walked me back to my building, and we stood in front of the doors, both of us too scared to say goodbye.

“Do you wanna come up? I can make some tea.”

It was a very flimsy excuse for _“I don’t wanna say goodbye to you because I’m scared it’ll be a forever goodbye and not a see-you-soon goodbye.”_

He said yes. So I lead him up to my apartment, the one he helped me move into before he left for MIT. Seeing his reaction to the way I’d moved furniture around and redecorated struck a cord with me.

“You changed it.”

“Yeah. I need to do something.”

_I needed to do something with myself that wasn’t sitting on my bed and crying onto my phone screen as I read through old messages or looked through old photos of us. I needed to change my apartment so it didn’t look the way you left it. I needed to stop using my living space and a grieving ground so I could get up and live my life._

“It looks good.”

We settled on my couch, drinking tea and chatting. Slowly, we leaned closer together. It seemed that the second the tea ran out, we ran into each other.

The first kiss was as soft and hesitant as some of our very first kisses. Our lips were mapping things out again, trying to figure out where the lines were drawn, what territory was welcome and what wasn’t.

We pulled apart and looked at each other.

“I don’t know that this is a good idea,” I said, softly, knowing I was pushing him away.

“It definitely isn’t.”

We stared at each other for another moment, and then kissed again.

This kiss wasn’t soft or hesitant or gentle. It was pure passion and longing and missing each other.

I couldn’t get close enough to him. I pushed my whole body against him, kissing him whole heartedly, and it didn’t feel like nearly enough. I needed him.

The sex itself was great. Neither of us were holding back. We said “I love you” freely, between moans. We held each other tight and fucked hard and fast, both of us incredibly desperate for something out of reach.

And we fell asleep together. Curled up, the way we always did. I was wearing his shirt, a shirt I hadn’t worn in months.

My chest felt weird. It felt warm and fuzzy, but in a different way than it used to with Peter. It was uneasy, too, because I no longer had the comfort of thinking we had a future together.

And that was awful. The uneasiness became this black hole, sucking up any of the fulfilment I’d gotten from the sex, and I was left in the arms of the boy I loved, somehow feeling colder and lonelier and emptier than before.

I didn’t sleep at all that night. I stared at the wall, wondering why we broke up if we loved each other so much. Shouldn’t we have been able to make it work? Shouldn’t we have tried harder?

I went back and read the first essay I wrote about the breakup, just to remind myself that if we got back together now, it’d be worse. I’d spend weekends stressed about driving to MIT to be with a boy who’s life goals were so distinctly different than mine.

We didn’t match up anymore. We were no longer perfect puzzle pieces, meant to click into place and stay there.

Time and growth had changed us both. And that was a good thing. I am a much better person now than I was at sixteen. I’m more confident, I’m a better writer and activist, I’m stronger and smarter and kinder. And he’d changed, too. He had big shoes to fill, and the closer he got to filling them, the further away he moved from our friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man, who could barely ask a girl out.

I was proud of him. But I needed to be proud from afar.

We parted ways in the morning, after we ate a very quiet breakfast together. I kissed him on the cheek and wished him luck. He pulled me into a tight hug and told me to be happy.

When the door closed behind him, I cried. Hard. It felt like breaking up again.

I wrote out a text, asking if I could see him again before he left town.

It’s still sitting in the message field on my phone. I can’t bring myself to delete it. Because I’m still scared of that goodbye. One day he and I are gonna say goodbye, and we’ll never speak again. And I’m hoping the goodbye we said after breakfast that day wasn’t it.

Maybe that’s unhealthy. Maybe I should’ve moved on by now. After all, I’m a Gen Z women. When we break up with men, we’re supposed to become Fashion Nova models and get our nips pierced and make out with a different guy every day of the week. The very least I can do is to stop pining, right?

Wrong. I’m going to let myself feel this breakup in its entirety. I’m going to cry as much as I need to, go on as many terrible dates. I might even slip up and fuck my ex again, who knows?

I’m committing myself to being human right now. To having feelings and struggle and break down and fuck up.

There is nothing about breaking up with someone you love, that you still think is perfect, that is easy to get over.

And I’m not going to do you all the disservice of putting on a brave face.

So, yeah. Breakup sex sucks. Not that Peter’s performance wasn’t great. It’s just that it becomes a denial of the pain you’re in. You can’t force pain out of your body by sticking a dick in it. Orgasms don’t heal heartbreak. Kisses can’t make it better.

But if there’s ever a point where I’m over him and we fuck anyways, I’ll let you know how it goes.


	4. Who can you stay connected to after a breakup?

It’s been several months since my breakup. Since then, I’ve been on multiple first dates (and no second dates), I’ve fucked my ex and kind of regretted it, and I’ve missed my ex’s aunt. A lot.

May was a big part of my life for three years. She took me in the second Peter brought me home, and was my mother figure for years. When Peter and I broke up, I suddenly lost her as well.

In the last few weeks, I’ve suddenly gotten very lonely. Betty and her boyfriend, Ned, moved in together. Cindy started dating someone, too, and has been sucked into the New Relationship Vortex. My family and I are pretty much estranged, so I can’t lean on them for support.

Right now, it’s just me.

And I’ve wondered how okay it is if I reconnect with May, and lean on her for support, despite the fact that I broke up with her nephew a few months ago.

My first instinct was to simply message my ex, tell him I missed her, ask if I’d be violating any boundaries by talking to her.

But I was scared. First of all, we haven’t spoken since our little slip-up, and it started to look like he was seeing someone else on social media. I didn’t want to seem like a jealous ex, trying desperately to cling to him, refusing to get out of his life so he could move on.

That’s not what it is. I told him I wanted him to find someone perfect for him, someone who stays perfect. If that’s the case, if he’s found that person, I don’t want to get in the way. I don’t want to interfere in the slightest. Because I do, honestly and truly, want him to move on and be happy.

And I am slowly getting better. I’ve stopped crying at the mere mention of his name or sight of a photo. Thinking about him no longer feels like my chest is opening up, ribs spreading apart, heart vulnerable to the bittersweet daggers of the memories.

It’s just a twinge now. Just a sad little pang before I shake it off and carry on about my day.

If I start talking to him again, will I set myself back? Will my ribs spread apart again? Will I start to cry when I hear his name?

That’s the thing that nobody tells you about getting over a breakup. You feel like you’re standing on a rug, someone standing at the edge, ready to yank it out from under your feet. You’ll fall right back into missing them too much to function.

I like functioning. I want to recover enough to step off the metaphorical rug and stand on solid ground and feel okay.

I also didn’t know if I could handle it if he said no, I couldn’t maintain a relationship with his aunt. And I knew that he might, because it’s a perfectly reasonable request to tell your ex not to butt in on your family.

I wanted so badly to go over to his old apartment, where his aunt still lives, and flop onto the couch and whine about my day, and have her tell me in her ever-soothing voice, “Hey, it’s okay, MJ. You’re strong. You got this.”

As I overthought myself into submission, into the acceptance that I’d never see his aunt again, I went for a walk. Just to clear my head. Maybe breath in some gasoline fumes.

I walked around my neighbourhood for a long time, and eventually went to the bodega a couple blocks away to grab some snacks for the night.

You’ll never guess who was there, oblivious to the bodega man who was flirting with her as she shopped.

May.

I walked over, and she greeted me with a big smile and a hug, told me she’d been reading my essays and was thinking about me, and that she’d missed me so much since Peter and I had broken up.

I smiled at her through tears, and told her that I missed her, too.

She dragged me back to the apartment and we cooked dinner together, catching each other up on the past few months. She’d gotten a promotion at work. I told her about school, and working for the paper, and how I was thinking about fostering dogs because I was lonely.

She asked why I hadn’t just reached out to her if I was so lonely.

For a moment, I was frozen. I didn’t know if I should tell her. I was probably already crossing lines by being here.

But the truth spilled out of me, and then I was sniffling and fighting back tears as she pulled me into a hug.

“The fact that you broke up with Peter doesn’t suddenly mean you’re not family anymore,” she said. “I still love you. I’m still here for you. Peter won’t care.”

So, I started spending my time at May’s. I still hadn’t spoken to Peter, and it bugged me, but I had to admit to myself that I needed May. You need people around you. You need a support system.

And then, yesterday, my phone rang.

Peter.

I answered, ready to be on the receiving end of a lecture, but instead he said, “Hey.”

I asked if he was calling to tell me not to hang out with his aunt.

“No. I told you, MJ. I just want you to be happy.” He went on to tell me that May had mentioned I was lonely, and asked me how I was doing. We spent an hour catching up, admitting we missed talking to each other.

I asked about the new girl, and he said he didn’t know where it was going yet.

I told him I hoped it worked out. He sounded like he was smiling when he said thank you.

Perhaps in a few months, when I don’t feel like I’m still standing on the rug, I’ll see if Peter and I can be friends. Because he’s a really good friend.

In the meantime, I’ll be trying to teach May how to cook.


	5. Can you be friends with an ex?

Peter came back to New York.

I suppose I forgot he only moved for school, and now that it’s April and exams are ending, he’s back.

May and I generally have dinner together. So I showed up, having just finished my last final, carrying a bag full of takeout, only to have Peter open the door.

And you know what? I didn’t feel any type of pang. I didn’t feel sad. I didn’t wish I could run into his arms and kiss him and tell him I loved him.

I smiled, and offered him noodles, and joined them both for dinner. Dinner was great. It was full of conversation and laughter, and we even watched a movie afterwards. All three of us.

It’s left me wondering if Peter and I can be friends.

We’ve had friendly interactions since May and I have remained close. Things don’t feel weird or forced.

And the truth is that I do love Peter. I think I always will. He’s the first person who really showed me what it’s like to be loved and understood. He’s the first person I opened myself up to, who really got to know me, and who I really got to know.

And I’m not in love with him anymore. The last seven months have been a deep cleanse. I’ve learned to recognize the reasons we don’t make a good couple, while still maintaining love and respect for him.

Can you be friends with an ex? Can you truly get past heartbreak, the end of love, and be genuinely good friends?

Here’s what I know.

Peter is endlessly supportive. He gave me permission to write about our breakup, not knowing if I’d paint him in a good light. He’s read every essay I’ve published since the breakup, Peter-related or not. He’s told me what he likes about them, that he’s proud of me and the career I’m making for myself.

He’s trustworthy as hell. I’ve told him things I’ve never told anybody else, and he’s still the only person who knows.

He’s backed me up when nobody else would. When my integrity was questioned. When readers of this very column accused me of faking a relationship with Spider-Man for attention. When I’ve spoken out against injustice only to be belittled.

And he’s the person I can go to with anything. If I’m crying over something in the middle of the night, I can call him, and I know he’ll answer and tell me exactly what I need to hear.

All the qualities of the perfect friend.

And friendships are easier than relationships. You can maintain long distance friendships easily.

But I’m scared that if we try to be friends, all the old feelings will come back. I’ve spent so much time getting over it and healing, and I’m finally in a really good place. I don’t want to fall back in love with someone who’s life no longer fits in with mine. And I especially don’t want to become friends again and have things go really well, only to fall back in love with him and screw up a perfectly good friendship.

And what does that mean for our future relationships? Will it cause tension with future partners if we’re still friends? Will we be put in situations where we have to choose between a partner or each other?

I don’t know what would be more valuable to me, a friendship with Peter or a relationship with my hypothetical future partner. I don’t know if it’d be weird to choose a friendship over a relationship.

And would Peter understand if I chose a relationship over him? Or would he hate me for the rest of time?

And what if the opposite happened? What if Peter was dating someone and she asked him to stop talking to me because a friendship with an ex makes her uncomfortable? What if he picks her over me, and I lose the best friend I’ve ever had? Will I resent him? Will I understand?

I get that I’m overthinking this, but friendships with exes are complicated. At least from what I can tell. I haven’t exactly befriended an ex before.

And here’s the other thing. What if Peter doesn’t want to be my friend? I did break up with him. He may resent me more than he’s letting on. Peter is definitely way too polite to be standoffish towards me.

Am I forgiven? Does he understand why we broke up?

Is he over it in the same way I am? Or is he still on the metaphorical rug, waiting for the moment it gets ripped out from under him and he falls back into the thick of the breakup?

I don’t know that I can do that to him. I think it makes me cruel, to break up with him, to end the relationship, but come crawling back and ask him to be my friend. I don’t want to hurt him anymore than I already have.

The truth is that I don’t know if I’m a redeemable character in this situation. I don’t know that he can necessarily forgive me for ending our relationship. I know he wants me to be happy, but I also know that you can wish the best for someone while also resenting them.

I want to be redeemable. I want that friendship back. I want the support and company and warmth of Peter. I want our inside jokes and meme-filled conversations. I want his honesty.

Is that selfish?

Does he still want our friendship? Does he want my support and honesty and humour? Or is this one-sided? Unrequited platonic love?

I’m gonna find out. I’ll let you know if he rejects my offer of friendship.


	6. the update

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey!!! [follow me on twitter for updates on new chapters or on tumblr for general writing stuff including writing lil pieces and taking requests!](https://caramelcaramelcaramel.carrd.co/)
> 
> anyways, enjoy the final essay!!!!!

It’s been a few years since I’ve updated you all on Peter, and I still get messages daily about this, so I suppose it’s time to answer some burning questions.

Shortly after I wrote my last essay, I talked to Peter. I asked if we could be friends, and he said yes and gave me a big hug.

We spent a large part of that summer together. Both of us were working, but in our off hours, the whole old gang met up, and we all went on adventures. A couple times, Peter and I went to our old stomping grounds, just to hang out and reminisce a little.

At the end of the summer, things felt just fine. Better than fine. Things were good.

We had a going away party for him the night before he left for MIT again. Just a little one. Pizza and soda and music. The basics.

I stayed on the couch overnight, while Ned slept on one of Peter’s bunks. In the morning, we helped Peter pack his suitcases into his car.

“You promise we’ll still talk?” he said to me.

“Of course we will.”

He pulled me into a tight hug. “Good. I love you, Em.”

I smiled. “I love you, too, Peter.”

And it was nice. It was genuine. But it wasn’t the same as before. We loved each other, sure, as much as we ever had. But we weren’t _in_ love with each other.

Ned and I stood together as we watched Peter drive off.

The rest of school years were like that. Talking sporadically during the year. Going adventuring with our friends during the summer. Rinse. Repeat.

I didn’t date anyone else during those years, at least not seriously. I went on dates with a few guys, but nobody met my standards. Peter had set the bar high.

Peter briefly saw a girl during his last year of MIT. We’ll call her Stacy. He brought her home for Thanksgiving, all giddy, and then after that we never heard from her again. When I asked him about it, he just said, “I guess she wasn’t as great as I thought she was.”

And then we graduated. The year after we did, Peter took over Stark Industries, and took me on part-time as a graphic designer. Between my hours for the Bugle, and my hours for Stark, I was working 40 hours a week, and making good enough money that I was able to move out of my shitty studio apartment and into a nice one-bedroom, and buy a newer car. Peter was working around the clock that year, trying desperately to figure out how to fill the shoes Tony Stark left behind.

He called me many times that year, stressed about all the ways he was failing. I’d drive up to HQ, go over plans with him, assured him everything was okay.

Pepper told me a couple times, when I’d stay over and hang out with her and Morgan, that Peter and I kind of reminded her of her and Tony. When I asked how, she just laughed and shook her head.

Another year went by. I ended my contract with the Bugle, became a freelancer for them. It gave me more time to work on Stark Industries stuff. I’d spend hours on hours in their art studio, doing photoshoots for campaigns, making art for ads. Peter would always come in when I worked more than eight hours, bringing hot chocolate and dinner, and sit with me as I worked.

We fell into an easy routine. And it worked for a long time.

Then there was a company party, celebrating the launch of a new StarkPad. I’d done the promo art, designed wallpapers, worked my ass off on it. Peter had tweaked the hardware about a million times, and was constantly combing through the code on the OS to make sure everything was good. Both of us had driven ourselves crazy with the launch. And when it finally came, we both needed to let loose. _Badly_.

About twenty minutes into the party, I decided we were going full Stark. I made Peter do three back-to-back shots with me. It was fine. It was a company party, yes, but it was completely private, and it was pretty much Peter, May, Pepper, Morgan, Happy, and a few others who knew Tony. Peter and I got wasted. I still have a video of us singing bad karaoke together, the two of us with our arms around each other, singing _Sweet Caroline_ embarrassingly offkey.

By the end of the night, I could barely walk. Thank goodness for Peter’s spidey-metabolism, because he was still sober enough to pick me up and carry me to his bedroom (thank goodness for the compound, I would not have made it home).

He tucked me into bed, and started to leave.

“Wait, come back,” I told him, slurring my words together.

He came back over, and kneeled by the bed. “Do you need anything?”

I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him. I can’t imagine it was a good kiss by any means, I was practically sweating booze.

When I pulled away, he gave me a puzzled look, and a slow, drunken blink. “What was that for?”

I shrugged. “Just felt like it.” I turned over, pulling the blankets around myself.

When I woke up, I was embarrassed and confused. I didn’t know what had possessed me to kiss him. I got up and wandered around the base to find him, eventually discovering him in his workshop, tinkering on Tony’s old car.

“Hey.”

He looked up. “Morning. How’s the hangover?”

I shook my head. “Gross.”

I remember the tension feeling like it was overwhelming my body. I sat down on the ground.

“I’m sorry about last night.”

Peter shook his head. “There’s nothing to be sorry about. You were drunk. It’s okay.”

“No, no, I do owe you an apology. I just don’t know where it came from, and I’m so embarrassed, and really confused because I don’t even know why I did it.”

I was shaking. I was scared out of my skin that I’d ruined everything. By this point, we’d been apart longer than we’d been together, and our friendship was solid and wonderful and if it fell apart because of one drunken kiss, I had no idea what I’d do.

But Peter stopped tinkering and looked at me.

“I’m sorry, Peter, I didn’t mean to screw things up.”

He came over to me, and I remember being absolutely terrified. I braced myself to be yelled at, for our friendship to end, to never speak to him again.

But he kissed me. Maybe it was the hangover, or the rush of falling back in love with him suddenly and fully, but it made me dizzy.

That was a year ago.

After that kiss, we eased into a relationship again. We went on dates, even recreating some of the dates we went on when we were younger. We started spending nights together. Eventually, we moved in together.

We now live in a penthouse in Queens, when we don’t live at the compound upstate.

And then, a few weeks ago, we went on a vacation. Italy, Greece, France, and then London.

After we had lunch one day, Peter insisted we go for a walk. I was tired, but he looked excited, so I complied.

I wasn’t really paying attention as we walked. We were chatting, and I was more focused on our conversation than where we were going. But then I suddenly had a sense of déjà vu.

We were on the bridge where we first kissed.

“Wow. They’ve really fixed this bridge up since we were last here.”

“Well, it has been eight or nine years.”

I stared out at the view, and almost didn’t notice Peter reaching into his jacket pocket and getting on one knee. I looked at him.

“What are you doing?”

He launched into this speech. I’ll spare you the details, partially because it was long and mushy, and partially because I’d kind of like to keep that moment between us.

I found myself crying as he spoke, and when he finally popped the question, I practically threw myself into his arms.

And the ring, guys. It’s beautiful. Peter really knows me well.

“Is that a yes?”

_Of course I want to marry you. You are the only person I’ve ever loved, the only person I will ever love. Saying goodbye to you the first time almost killed me and I never wanna do it again. All you want is for me to be happy. You are perfect and wonderful and make me feel loved and safe and beautiful and I don’t ever want to let you go. I do, I do, I do._

“Yes.”


End file.
